Bai Zhi Escapes Danger, Reuniting to Discuss Countermeasures

Just as Chen Wuya raised his right hand to signal with flags, the operator atop the war chariot triggered the mechanism. A dark-red flare shot from the roof and burst in the air, like a wide-open eye looking down upon the battlefield.

His pupils contracted. He immediately realized something was wrong—it was not an attack command, but a mark.

"Not good!" he growled, hurling himself toward a hollow beside the drum stand. Almost at the same instant, three heavy crossbow bolts tore in from a distant hillside and buried themselves where he had been standing, their shafts humming without end.

Enemy archers had long been lying in wait on the high ground at the flank, waiting only for him to expose himself.

Amid the rolling smoke and dust, he leaned against a broken wall, gasping heavily as pain surged through his left shoulder in waves. He wiped his face, his palm coming away smeared with a mixture of ash and blood. He could not step out again. One more try meant death.

But if he did not send the signal, the scattered remnants would be completely cut off.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled a bronze whistle from his robes and blew hard—three short blasts, a pause, then two trembling notes. It was the emergency contact code they had agreed upon earlier, used to confirm positions when sightlines were blocked.

The whistle pierced through the crackling of the blaze, faint but clear.

Among the distant ruins, a figure paused slightly.

Bai Zhi lay prone beneath the remains of a collapsed arrow tower, her fingertips resting lightly on the ground as she felt the rhythm of the vibrations. She closed her eyes, replaying the whistle she had just heard alongside the tremor pattern in her mind.

It was him. And he was